No Man's Land

by No Man's Land- Horror in the Trenches (epub)

  Suspending its murderous jaws just inches from his face, Harry could see straight into its hateful eyes. He saw the rage and ferocity he was expecting, but beneath those base layers was something else. Something even more profound, and more terrifying.

  Intelligence.

  It was not at all like looking into an animal's eyes, but more like gazing into those of a man. A demented, loathsome man who would like nothing better than to flay the flesh from your bones, and would stop at nothing to get what he wanted.

  Harry could feel the strength in his arms being sapped. The dog's attack was relentless, and its energy showed no signs of abating. The dagger was his only chance now.

  Forcing his elbow between himself and the body of the beast to allow room to manoeuvre, he reached for the dagger and managed to unsheathe it. But try as he might, he couldn’t get enough leverage to perform an effective stabbing motion. The hand clutching the dagger was trapped between his own body and that of the snarling beast. All he could do was slice, so slice he did. He didn’t know which part of the dog he was cutting. In fact, he wasn’t even sure he was cutting anything until the blood doused his hands. The fresh injury only seemed to make the dog more frenetic, and it made a desperate lunge for his face. It was all Harry could do to keep it off.

  If he let go of the dagger Harry thought maybe he would be able to grab one of the rocks that lay strewn over the decimated landscape. But it was a gamble. His strength was fading rapidly. It was difficult to see if there were any rocks within reach. If there weren't, he would be finished.

  Shoving all negative thoughts out of his mind, Harry shifted his weight, hoping to use the element of surprise to his advantage. He had aspirations of rolling the dog completely off him, but given the size and sheer weight of the dog, knew that was asking a lot of his battered, exhausted body.

  Suddenly, his arm squirmed free. Good enough! The price he paid was allowing the frenzied animal to lurch several inches closer to its obvious target of Harry's face.

  His flailing arm thrashed blindly at the ground immediately adjacent to him, fingers sinking into the soft mud. Finally, his hand brushed against something solid. It felt like a rock. He wriggled and squirmed until he could seize the object in his palm. It was indeed a rock, and it felt quite weighty and substantial, though nowhere near as weighty or substantial as he would have liked. Swinging his arm with all the force he could muster he smashed the rock against the dog's muscular body.

  The blow had no effect.

  Again with the rock.

  Still, no effect.

  Harry let out a cry of despair. He couldn't hold out much longer. He had enough strength in reserve for just one more shot. This time, he managed to manoeuvre his lower body in such a way as to allow him not only to get more leverage, but also aim his strike higher. The rock landed solidly in the place where the dog's ear used to be with a satisfying thud.

  The Hell Hound blinked several times in quick succession, and for a moment stopped snarling. A single strand of pink drool dribbled from the corner of its mouth. With a renewed sense of purpose Harry squeezed the animal's throat tighter with his right hand while simultaneously rolling over and throwing his own weight down on it.

  Now, he was on top.

  Realizing he still held the rock, he lifted it high above his head and smashed it into the dog's snout. It let out a sharp cry as as its sharp teeth mashed against its lips and splintered. Wounded, it tried to wriggle away, but Harry pinned the struggling animal to the ground. He struck it with the rock again, and again.

  Just as he landed the final, killing blow on the creature's crushed skull, a moment passed between them. As Harry glared down at the beast, revitalized by the beguiling scent of victory, there was something approaching understanding in the Hell Hound's eyes. It knew it was beaten. It knew it had lost its battle and the end had arrived.

  Harry rolled on to his side, inches away from the bloodied carcass of the Hell Hound, breathing heavily. The creature was still twitching in its death throes, one rear leg kicking the air feebly. It looked more like some kind of huge wolf than a dog. As tendrils of steam rose from its spilt blood to mingle with the mist, he marvelled at the sheer size of the animal.

  The adrenaline rush was subsiding, and now the pain from a dozen fresh wounds, mostly made by the creature's claws on his chest and shoulders, was beginning to creep up on him. He felt both joyful and disgusted, the two emotions mixing together to form something bitter and sour-tasting. He had just slaughtered a dog. He didn't think he could feel any worse if he had just emerged victorious from bout of unarmed combat with an actual human being. There was blood on his hands. There was blood all over him, in fact.

  He wanted to be sick.

  But there was no time for that. He had to get moving.

  As Harry was getting shakily to his feet, something caught his attention. Something on the ground a few yards away. As he cautiously approached his apprehension gave way to elation.

  The Enfield!

  He had found it!

  In that instant, he realized that in many ways finding the lost rifle had become symbolic to him in his struggle against the odds. With a fresh injection of energy, he bounded over and picked up the weapon. It seemed to be unscathed and the bayonet was still attached, the steel now muddied and dirty but just as sharp.

  Instinctively, he checked the chamber, and on seeing there was no bullet in the breach, pulled back the bolt to load it. Reunited with his favoured weapon, he felt almost invincible. Bloody Germans? Bring them on. Nothing could stop him now!

  Gleefully clutching his prize, Harry turned to resume his journey back to his lines. And there, standing between him and salvation, was the stormtrooper.

  Chapter VII:

  Death or Glory

  At the sight of the stormtrooper Harry dropped to his knees and assumed a firing position. Later, he questioned whether he had intended to do that, or if his legs simply gave out and in aiming his rifle he had simply subconsciously reverted back to his army training.

  He had the stormtrooper in his sights.

  But there was something unnatural about the way his foe just stood there, out in the open like that, hands hanging at his sides, still clutching the Mausers. He was fearless. Brazen. As if he knew no harm would come to him. Was it bravery? Arrogance? Or stupidity? He must have been on the periphery, watching Harry struggle with the dog then bash its brains in. Why hadn’t he just shot him in the back whilst he had been distracted?

  Harry’s head began to spin. None of this made any sense. He was suddenly reminded of his waking dream, and the menacing figure lurking amidst the clouds, watching him.

  Had it been a dream?

  Or…

  The alternative was too horrifying to contemplate.

  Harry was filled with a sudden surge of hatred and loathing for the stormtrooper, now recognizing him as possibly the only obstacle that stood between him and any hope of once again attaining something akin to a normal life. He needed to put an end to this, once and for all.

  His finger tightened on the Enfield’s trigger. His breath was coming in shallow gasps, and despite the chill in the air, he could feel beads of sweat forming on his forehead.

  Slowly, ever-so-slowly, the stormtrooper brought up the pair of Mausers, and Harry exerted more pressure on the trigger. Gently, gently. It was important not to jerk the weapon and throw the sights off. In those final moments before the rifle discharged, Harry was almost overwhelmed by the impression that he had reached a pivotal moment in his life, knowing that whatever happened after he fired, nothing would ever be the same for him again.

  He held his breath and squeezed.

  CRACK!

  That was better! Much more satisfying than the feeble pop of the service revolver. The stormtrooper crumpled to his knees in a heap as the recoil from the Enfield pushed the long bayoneted barrel up and to the left. Harry immediately pulled back the bolt to breach another bullet. The Germ
an was down, but surely seeing him off wouldn't be that easy?

  Not wanting to take any unnecessary chances, Harry fired two more bullets into the grounded German, seeing him jerk violently each time as the rifle cartridges found their mark. Even after the triple volley, Harry breached another bullet and stared down the Enfield's barrel at the dark, unmoving shape half-hidden in the rolling clouds of morning mist. The only sound he could hear was his own shallow breathing and the beating of his heart.

  The strormtrooper wasn’t moving.

  Still sighting down his rifle, head cocked and one eye closed, Harry slowly rose to a standing position and began advancing on the downed enemy.

  As he drew nearer, he noticed the stormtrooper was lying on his side facing away from him, and carefully angled his approach so he would remain in the German’s blind spot. The only problem with the plan was that all Harry could see from this position was the Hun's broad back and shoulders. He was still wearing his helmet and gas mask, and the black poncho he wore had ridden up to partially obscure his face. Harry couldn't tell if he was still breathing or not.

  A couple of yards away, he stopped. Something was wrong. He could feel it, sense it. Danger. All around. Closing in. Every instinct implored him to run, just get away from there, but he stubbornly stood his ground.

  He looked back at the dead dog. It was still. And as usual, no man's land appeared to be deserted. Nobody in their right mind's would set foot out here during daylight hours, unless they wanted their heads blown off. Like Dewi.

  Only mad dogs and Englishmen!

  Harry almost chuckled at his private joke. Oh, the irony. His humour faded when some other part of his brain added…

  And huge German stormtroopers.

  Moments later, the same voice added...

  What are you even still doing here? RUN!

  That was a damn good idea.

  Finally giving in to his raging senses, Harry turned on his heels and burst into an awkward sprint. He only got a few yards before something caught his foot and sent him spiralling through the air, his rifle tumbling from his grasp.

  He landed hard. On trying to get up, he found his legs were tangled up in something. Barbed wire? No. This was more like thick fishing line, practically invisible until you were right up close to it.

  A trip wire?

  He wanted to believe that he had inadvertently stumbled across some kind of wreckage or other debris. But there was nothing in the vicinity that could explain the presence of the trip wire. It stretched across the ground just above ankle height, fixed tightly between two broken tree stumps. It had obviously been placed with great care.

  A booby trap.

  Yet, there was no explosion. That could only mean some kind of malfunction, in which case God really was smiling on him, or that the wire wasn't hooked up to any explosives. But if that were the case, why would somebody go to the trouble?

  Don't think about it, just get away!

  That was easier said than done. The wire seemed to have a life of its own, wrapping itself around Harry's feet and lower legs ever tighter as he struggled with it. He had unsheathed his dagger and began slicing through it, when something compelled him to look up.

  The stormtrooper he had left for dead was moving.

  No!

  At first he thought it was just the breeze ruffling the German's clothes, but as he watched, horrified and numb, he saw the limbs twitch and come to life. Harry scrambled for the Enfield, but it was out of reach. The wire restricting his movement, all he could do was flounder in the mud. His cutting and slicing grew more urgent, and more than once he cut painfully into his own body in his desperation to free himself. Only then did the purpose of the booby trap become clear. It wasn't meant to kill. Or even maim. It was designed specifically to slow him down, keep him here.

  And why would that be?

  Again and again he found his gaze drawn back to the crumpled form of the stricken stormtrooper. It moved slowly, methodically, as if waking from a deep sleep, using its thick, muscular arms to push itself into a sitting position. From there, it turned its head and stared in Harry’s direction across the short length of ruined land that separated them. The look turned Harry's blood to ice.

  Why hadn’t he pumped more bullets into it when he’d had the chance? Or bayoneted it to be sure, like he’d done with the other Germans?

  Even as Harry considered this, he was becoming convinced that more bullets, a bayonet strike, or anything else would have made a difference, the thought lurking at the back of his mind. He set about carving at the wire with renewed vigour, finally succeeding in cutting enough of the stuff away to allow him to reach the Enfield. With barely enough time to aim, he simply pointed the rifle and pulled the trigger.

  The shot missed.

  Come on, he commanded himself. Pull yourself together!

  The stormtrooper was on his feet now. He seemed to have zeroed in on Harry, perhaps focused by the rifle shot, and began moving in his direction, walking slowly, yet with a disconcerting single-minded intent.

  Hands shaking, Harry chambered another round and pulled the Enfield’s trigger again. This time, his efforts were met with a hollow click.

  Damn it!

  His mind racing and body struggling to keep up, he fumbled in his pouches for more cartridges, praying the problem wasn't a jam or something else that would take time to fix. He tried to look after his weapon the way he had been taught, but in these awful conditions, malfunctions were not uncommon. There wasn't enough time to check. Instead, Harry concentrated on reloading the rifle and tried to banish the steadily advancing German from his mind.

  Suddenly the air was filled with a loud roar and the earth around him began exploding, showering him with muck and debris. Bullets thud into the ground around him and something flew into his eyes, temporarily blinding him. He dropped a handful of cartridges, recovered two of them, and hurriedly inserted them into the rifle as he rubbed furiously at his stinging eyes. There wasn’t enough time to fill the whole magazine. Two bullets would have to do.

  The rapid Mauser fire stopped. Blinking to help clear his vision, Harry stole a glance at the stormtrooper. Tendrils of smoke were rising from the barrels of his machine pistols. Without breaking stride, the German dropped one of the empty guns, ejected the spent magazine from the other, and quickly inserted a fresh one. Harry was aware that perhaps the only thing that saved him from being filled full of holes was the fact that he was lying flat on the ground, presenting a smaller target to the shooter. On rapid fire, those machine pistols were probably difficult to aim, especially if you are holding one in each hand.

  Another burst of fire flayed the ground around him, and Harry rolled clumsily to get out of the way. Somewhere deep in his mind, it registered that he had finally succeeded in tearing himself free of the tangled trip wire. But despite his evasive measures, something thumped into his upper arm. It felt as if he had suddenly been punched. There was a sudden dead numbness, followed by a searing, burning pain.

  He'd been shot.

  As he rolled he managed to fire off a shot from his Enfield, hoping the stormtrooper would take cover in the interests of self-preservation, allowing Harry some brief respite.

  His plan seemed to work. There was indeed a lull in the Mauser fire and Harry, sensing an opportunity, quickly rose to his knees and aimed the Enfield, gritting his teeth as bolts of pain flashed all the way down his wounded arm from his shoulder to his fingertips.

  The German was less than ten yards away now and still advancing slowly, but for some reason wasn't shooting any more. Harry didn't know what game he was playing, and he didn't care. Aiming for the midriff, he pulled the Enfield's trigger, and immediately ducked back down to ground level to ram another two bullets into the rifle without even waiting to see if his shot landed.

  Reloaded, and still no return fire to worry about, he rose quickly to his knees and sighted down the barrel once more. The stormtrooper was still co
ming, holding his weapon in front of him. But he seemed to have no interest in shooting Harry.

  Was he out of bullets?

  No, wait. In his other hand, he was carrying something.

  What was that?

  Harry stared, mouth agape. He couldn't believe what was happening. It was like a nightmare. The black-clad stormtrooper was just a few yards away now, allowing Harry to gaze into the twin dark caverns of the gas mask as he tried to imagine what kind of inhuman monster lurked within. In its hands, the stormtrooper was carrying his old friend Dewi's severed head.

  As Harry looked on, mouth opening and closing in horror, the stormtrooper held the head up in the air like a trophy, gripping it by its short crop of fair hair. The skin of Dewi's face was ghastly white and his mouth contorted into a silent scream ringed by blackened lips. His sunken eyes were open and staring, their once-sharp blue colour faded to a dull grey.

  Harry found his terror slowly being replaced with a simmering rage. What was going on here? Was it not enough for this man beast to simply kill Harry and be done with it? Did he have to taunt him, repulse him, push him to the edge of sanity, as well?

  All-but consumed with anger, Harry brought up the Enfield and quickly fired off one of the bullets he had loaded. More by luck than design, it struck the stormtrooper full in the face. There was a metallic crunch as the gas mask imploded, the force of the impact sending the German reeling backwards.

  Ignoring the numbing pain from the bullet wound in his arm, Harry let out a war cry and charged, thrusting his bayonet into the stormtrooper's gut and pushing it in with all his might as he ran him through. Already off-balance, the enemy went down, arms outstretched. The moment he hit the ground, Harry pulled the trigger. In such close proximity to the target, this time the report was muffled. The stormtrooper’s body jerked as if he’d been kicked.